


Deadly Lover, Mine parts 1-4

by RavenMorganLeigh



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-12
Updated: 2003-10-12
Packaged: 2018-11-20 18:52:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenMorganLeigh/pseuds/RavenMorganLeigh
Summary: Doggett's Rescued From A Deadly Lover. And Himself.





	Deadly Lover, Mine parts 1-4

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Deadly Lover, Mine parts 1-4

### Deadly Lover, Mine parts 1-4

#### by Raven Morgan Leigh

  

    
    
         Date: Wednesday, April 16, 2003 10:08 PM
         Title: Deadly Lover, Mine.. parts 1-4
         Author: Raven Morgan Leigh 
         Pairing: Doggett/Other, Doggett/Skinner and Reyes/Scully
         Partnership
         Rating: R
         Type: Slash
         Status: WIP 
         Archive: Yes, anywhere! Just Let me know!
         Disclaimers: I Don't Own Any Of These Characters, But I Like
         To Write About Them... I Assure You, I'm Still _Poor_. 
         Summary: Doggett's Rescued From A Deadly Lover... And
         Himself.
    

* * *

**DEADLY LOVER, MINE...**

Part 1 

Doggett had thought that Skinner's manner toward him had been thawing of late, so when he showed up at the A.D.'s office late that afternoon, he was surprised at the man's seeming hostility. 

Skinner scowled at Doggett over the wire rim frames of his glasses. " Agent Doggett." 

"A.D. Skinner. " Doggett acknowledged. Oh, what the hell is this, Doggett wondered, mentally running over the cases he was working on; trying to remember if he could possibly have missed something, or if he'd breached some arcane bit of protocol recently. 

Skinner shoved a file across the desk towards his agent. 

Cautiously, Doggett snagged the file, opened it. It contained pictures. He took a good look. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. For a moment he couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. He felt lightheaded. Sick. 

"Do you want to explain this to me, Agent Doggett?" Skinner asked, sounding dangerous. 

Doggett's eyes widened, and he glanced up at the Assistant Director. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He tried again. " I--I.. can't.. I don't know..." He rasped, trying hard to control the fit of trembling he knew was coming on. 

It was all beginning to make a weird kind of sense, now... the nightmares, the unexplained sense of fear when he was alone, his jumpiness at being touched... and the pain he'd been in for the last few days. He hadn't dared let himself feel it. He'd suspected what it was... but it looked like he'd been wrong. Dead wrong. 

"Agent Doggett?" Skinner's voice was softer, this time. " Are you telling me you have no knowledge of this? Of what happened to put you in these pictures?" 

Doggett reeled, flashes of pain reverberating through his head, through his body.. remembered pain...being drugged, grogginess, and then the beating... and.. and.. 

He rose unsteadily to his feet, and began trying to back away for the A.D.'s desk. 

"Doggett? John?" 

"No--no.. stay away..." He moaned, and the next thing he'd fallen; he was on all fours, blindly trying to figure out where he was, only someone had him, and wouldn't let him go, and there were hands on him, and oh God, this was going to hurt so much... he struck out wildly, and caught something. Then he struggled as he was forced down onto the floor. He wanted to cry out, but he couldn't get his breath. Someone was forcing something over his face and he couldn't breathe.... 

Everything went dark. 

* * *

"John?" 

Doggett heard the voice from very far away. He didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to have to remember. Didn't want to have to explain. 

"C'mon, John." Weary, concerned voice. 

A cold cloth was gently draped across Doggett's forehead. It dripped a little. Water ran into his hair and tickled his ear; it made him shiver. He opened his eyes, and the A.D. was there. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and looked exhausted. He also had a nasty bruise; one eye was developing quite a shiner. 

Even the dim lighting hurt, and Doggett winced at it. 

"Are you back? " Skinner asked quietly. He eased himself into a rather plush chair beside the bed. 

Doggett nodded ,warily. " Where..." he rasped, tried again," ...where am I? " 

Skinner ducked his head for a moment, ran his hand over his face. " I - we-- took you to my place. You're in my guest room. I didn't really know what else to do with you." 

The pictures, Doggett thought, but didn't say it. " Scully knows? Monica? " Doggett asked, dismayed. 

Skinner guessed it. " Yeah." Skinner said, " I had her check you out. Agent Reyes... Monica is worried sick. They're in my living room. I've been trying to get Scully to get some rest--of course, she won't do that till she knows you're all right. I did manage to get her to take a break." 

"Christ. How long have I been here? " Doggett asked, feeling stronger. 

"We got you here right after your ... episode in my office. It's pretty late, John." 

"Episode?" 

"You went into some sort of daze... shock...we managed to walk you out of the building and to my car before you passed out." 

Skinner reached out towards Doggett, and Doggett flinched. He couldn't help it. Then he saw that the A.D. had only been reaching for his glasses which were sitting on the bedside table. 

"John." Skinner's voice was soft, unwontedly so. 

Doggett couldn't trust himself to look at the man, he could feel himself tearing up. He wasn't cut out for this sort of melodramatic crap, but here he was, losing it... because.. because what? 

Because you are the one who fucked up, that's why. You are the reason why you're in this mess. 

"John?" 

Skinner's voice threw Doggett back to another time, another place... Oh, God, no... 

"Get him!" 

Betrayal. The worst betrayal. 

Hands on him, not letting him up.. he was fighting, struggling but he was outnumbered. 

"Hold him down!" 

Doggett was screaming obscenities as his jeans were undone, and ripped down his legs.. 

Legs brutally forced apart... 

Blinding pain... again, and again, and again, and again... 

* * *

He was huddled in a corner in Skinner's guest room. In defensive mode. Bedcovers trailed from the bed to his feet, he'd pulled them with him when he'd panicked. Dana Scully wanted to go to him, but Doggett was just too panicked, too dangerous. 

Skinner was afraid to tackle the man, it would be too easy to really cause him damage if Doggett went all out. And Skinner didn't think he needed to feel any sort of threat from a man, especially not one quite a bit bigger than he was. 

"Agent Doggett!" Scully said, as soothingly as she could, "We need you to be calm, it's okay. You're not in any danger here. You're safe." She tried for calmness, but inside she was terrified. What had happened to this man, so strong and unflappable... to put him in this state? Judging from Skinner's description of the first breakdown in his office, Scully had a very sick feeling that she might know what was going on. 

Doggett's breath came in harsh gasps. He seemed to be looking at something no-one else could see. A shudder ran though him, and he groaned. 

Monica Reyes stood nearby, her face deadly white. She seemed torn between the urge to go to Doggett or breaking down into tears herself. She threw an enraged look at Scully. 

God help whoever had done this to her partner. 

But Doggett was wilting, now... the storm seemed to be waning. His eyes were dulling, his mouth growing slack. His knees buckled and he collapsed and lay still, breathing raggedly. Scully kneeled at his side, not quite wanting to touch just yet, just observing. 

Doggett's eyes were open, but held no hint of awareness of his surroundings. He seemed to simply be worn out, and going back into shock. 

Scully snagged one of the blankets, and very gently laid it over the prone body. He shuddered again, but made no move to defend himself. 

Is he cycling through whatever ordeal he went through? Scully wondered, watching him closely as his breathing began to slow, and his eyes slid closed. 

"I need my bag, " She said quietly to Reyes, who left quickly. 

"What the hell is this, Scully?" Skinner asked, worry and sadness plainly evident in his voice. He was still keeping his distance from the younger man, not wanting to send him into another attack. " Do we need to get him to a hospital?" 

"Maybe." Scully said shortly. "But I'm worried for his safety. We don't know exactly what happened, who did this..." 

Reyes returned, medical bag in hand. 

Scully took it, fished out a hypodermic needle and a vial. " This should calm him down enough for us to figure out what has to be done." She filled the hypo, and used a antiseptic wipe to clean a spot on Doggett's forearm. Doggett's eyes flashed open, and be began to shake. 

"Hold him, help me out, here." Scully snapped. 

This time Skinner didn't hesitate. He grabbed the agent and immobilized him, pinning his arms to his sides. Doggett jerked once as Scully plunged the needle home. He moaned something unintelligible, trying desperately to escape from Skinner. Skinner just held him, murmuring soothing nonsense into Doggett's ear ,and finally the agent's struggles began to weaken until he lay slumped in Skinner's arms. 

* * *

Skinner and Reyes sat at the dining room table, drinking coffee. Skinner had brought the file from the office, figuring that he might need some input from his other two agents. 

"Okay, so looking at these pictures, we can see that this is Agent Doggett's house. " Reyes said. She pointed to one of the pictures. "He looks drugged, out of it. And here... this doesn't look like passion to me. It looks like agony." She swallowed hard, obviously trying to stay in professional mode. " How Kersh could possibly have thought this was something other than a ..." She couldn't say it. 

"It's also interesting that the photographer managed to make sure the only recognizable face in the photos is Agent Doggett's." Reyes added. 

"This is the note that was sent to Kersh," Skinner said , handing her a small, square of paper. She read the message out loud. 

Kinky Agents make headlines. Do you want this sort of publicity for the F.B.I ? 

"Okay, so I can see why Kersh might have jumped to conclusions. But looking at the pictures...I mean, there are at least four other men in these photos, and Agent Doggett not only looks drugged , but also as if he's being forced." Reyes said, heavily. 

Scully entered the dining room. She looked worn, exhausted. 

Reyes and Skinner both looked up at her, worry plain on their faces. 

"He's doing better. Resting." Scully answered the unasked question. "I took the liberty of ... examining him while he was out. " Her mouth twisted in distaste. "It's obvious from the contusions and bruising around his torso and pelvis, that Agent Doggett was raped. There's some superficial tearing of the... rectal tissue, not too serious, still I'd like to get him on antibiotics to ward off any possible infection. It was most likely a serial rape. No fluids were present, and it's too late to do a rape kit." Scully sighed, wearily. She ambled over to the table, and took a chair. 

Reyes and Skinner sat dumbly, but the expressions on both their faces were of sadness and anger. 

"Because of his mental state," Scully continued, "I'd like to get him to a hospital where I can run a tox screen on him, other tests. He could be mildly concussed. He has faint ligature marks on his wrists and ankles, indicating the presence of a soft rope to hold him down--whoever did this didn't want obvious marking." 

She took a deep breath, not liking what she knew she had to say. "There's something I don't understand. Even if Agent Doggett blocked out the memory of the rape, he had to be feeling the effects of it--this had to have happened very recently-- most likely in the last three or four days. How could he not have realized something was wrong? He had to be in a great deal of pain." 

Skinner stared at her, uncomprehendingly. Then slowly a light dawned in his eyes, and he bowed his head quickly , cursing under his breath. 

Reyes understood, and simply buried her head in her hands. " Oh, God, John." 

Skinner was grim. "This has either happened before... and it's someone he knows--or he's been engaging in behavior that would explain his injuries... at least to him." 

"Yes, but who?" Scully asked, eyebrows raised. "Who would do this?" 

Reyes said in a small voice, "I didn't think he'd been seeing anyone... he's pretty much kept to himself since his divorce." 

"That's what we're going to have to find out," Skinner said, rising from his chair. " I'm going to go make some calls. Somebody get in there with him. I don't want Doggett left alone." 

* * *

Reyes sat at Doggett's bedside, musing over the night's revelations. In sleep the agent's face seemed calm, relaxed. Almost peaceful. 

What have you been doing to yourself, John? Reyes wondered. Things were beginning to add up. 

All the assorted "football" injuries---as an explanation for the stiffness in his movements. Black eyes. 

Bruised chest--she'd seen that once, when he'd had to change in front of her while they were working a case together. 

Something that had looked like ...welts, on his back. Explained away. Caught by brush while fishing. A fall. 

She frowned, remembering something... John's reaction to a fellow agent, who had been working in Violent Crimes, where Doggett had been before being assigned to the X-Files. Tall, dark haired. 

John had seemed ... strange, almost ...diffident... around this man, when he'd shown up in their basement office to ask about a possible connection to an odd series of rape cases. 

Skinner stood in the doorway, motioned to Reyes. She followed him out into the hallway. Scully was with him, looking as grim as Monica had ever seen her. 

The A.D. spoke in a near whisper. "I did some digging, made a few calls. There's .. an agent that Doggett's been seeing...romantically." Skinner's face shaded to red. "It seems however, that this guy... well, there's some rumors about his sexual proclivities... and also about what's happened to some of his, ah...lovers. He was almost up on charges at one point, but the complainant ...disappeared." 

Reyes' brow furrowed. "Do you have a description of this man? Was he tall, dark hair... mustache?" 

"Yes. You've seen him?" Skinner asked. 

"He came by the office, looking for assistance on a case. I'd never seen John behave so strangely. It was almost as if he was afraid of the guy, but attracted to him as well." Monica frowned. " I'm trying to remember his name... but it's been a few months since I met him." 

"Whitechapel?" Skinner supplied. 

"That's right!" Reyes breathed, eyes wide. "Eddy--Edward. He's got an odd accent, like he grew up in England or something." 

"Why is he still working with the Bureau?" Scully asked. 

"That's what I'd like to know." Skinner said, scowling. 

* * *

It was morning, and Doggett opened his eyes to see Skinner by his bedside again. The big man was sleeping in the chair. It couldn't have been comfortable. 

Maybe he could get out of here before the questions started. He just wasn't feeling up to the questions he knew were coming. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

Sitting up painfully, Doggett watched the A.D.'s eyes flutter, then focus on him. 

Busted, Doggett thought. He tried a wry grin, knew he was grimacing instead. 

"How are you feeling?" Skinner asked, quietly. 

"Been better." Doggett answered. His throat felt raw. Had he been screaming? He decided Good Old Fashioned Southern Charm might help him out, here. That and a good dose of luck. Maybe he could get out of here with his skin intact. " Sir, I'm truly sorry to have put you through all this for me," he said, " I'll get my stuff and be out of here." 

"Riiight." Skinner said, dryly. "I don't think so, agent. We need to talk." 

"I can't." Panicked. The words were out before Doggett could stop himself. 

"You're going to have to talk to me, there's too much at stake here. And it's not just you that I'm worried about." Skinner seemed to be trying to be gentle, but the command mode was beginning to come through with every word. "Look, Agent Doggett, I don't care about what your sexual habits are, not unless they get in the way of the performance of your duties. Today, they have. Now, what the hell's going on with you and Whitechapel?" 

Doggett felt all the blood drain from his face at Skinner's words. He knew! That meant Monica.. and Scully and God only knew who else. 

"It's okay, John. Just tell the truth." 

Doggett's head snapped up. He was nothing if not scrupulously honest. At least with others, even if not always to himself. Lately. 

You want plain speakin', Skinner ? The Truth? Well, let's see how well you handle it. 

"You wanna hear me say that I've been letting this fella fuck me up the ass for months, is that what it is?" Doggett snarled. "That sometimes I got so drunk I blacked out and can't remember what the hell he did to me? He's a real heavy top, and sometimes he hurt me, and I let him. I let him because I needed it. It kept me fucking sane." Doggett was yelling now, and he stopped, hearing himself. 

Jeezus. I sound crazy, even to myself, Doggett thought. 

Skinner didn't seem that surprised. That scared Doggett, a little. 

"Why?" Skinner asked, simply. 

"I--after Luke, after my marriage... Everything seemed to hurt. I thought I was gonna go crazy. It started out so .. easy. It got to be more and more intense. It's just that I... I was so lonely... so goddamned lonely..." Doggett broke off, ashamed. He felt so absolutely pathetic. 

Skinner kept his voice gentle. "And why would he try to destroy you? Your career?" 

"I broke it off with him. It...it got to be too much. He started wantin' to get ...kinky. Wanted to play with...toys, and ... other things. Wanted to watch me with other men." Doggett's voice broke. His hands shook, and he could feel his eyes tearing up again. 

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and was proud that he managed to look the A.D. in the eye. " He brought that on and I figured enough was enough. I broke it off with him. Said if he kept botherin' me, I'd report him. He was... actin' scary. Crazy. Said I was his. He told me there was no way he'd ever let me do break up with him, and that I'd never file a complaint against him, he'd make certain of it. I guess he was right, because my career's ruined." Doggett gritted his teeth. 

"No, it's not, John." Skinner said, sincerely, and Doggett threw Skinner a sardonic look. 

Skinner fixed Doggett with a look. "We don't kick people out of the F.B.I. for being gay, not anymore. Public indiscretion, a reprimand, maybe. Sometimes, if it's bad enough... yes, you could lose your job over it." 

The A.D. was quiet a moment. "There's a pattern to Whitechapel's behavior, did you know that? He's done this before to other people, but never an agent. At least that's according to some very scary rumors. A few of those people he's said to have dated seem to have gone missing." 

"That can't be.." Doggett murmured, shocked. 

"Well, actually--" Skinner said heavily, "--we're not even sure of what his real identity is. His credentials turned out to bogus. Faked. Very slick. There's also a string of unsolved cases surrounding this man." 

"Unsolved cases?" Doggett asked in a small voice. 

"Rapes, murders." Skinner cleared his throat and looked Doggett in the eye. "Of other men." 

"Holy God." Doggett whispered. " I never...I never..." 

"We don't know where he is, he seems to have disappeared. So you're staying here, where we can keep an eye on you." 

"I've...I've been an idiot, sir." Doggett stared at the blankets. He looked up at Skinner, expecting to see revulsion and censure. 

Surprisingly, Skinner slowly took Doggett's hand in his own. "It happens, John. It happens to the best of us." He squeezed Doggett's hand gently, and released it. " I'll bet you're hungry. I know I am. There's some soup in the kitchen, courtesy of your partner. You'll be alright up here for a bit?" 

"I'm not an invalid, Skinner." Doggett retorted, ignoring Skinner's dubious look. "I'll just come on down, if you don't mind." 

He started to swing back the covers, and then stopped. " Uh, Skinner? Uhmm, where the hell are my pants?" 

* * *

Part 2 

Skinner found Doggett's pants, a thing for which Doggett was eternally grateful. It was also a blessing that he left the agent to get dressed in private. 

Doggett was still rather shaky, and very sore and he tried hard not to think of the reasons why as he pulled on his charcoal dress slacks. He left the dress shirt and jacket off, and opted to wear the gray t-shirt instead, feeling that comfort was definitely a plus in this situation. 

He found himself having to take a few deep breaths to steady himself as he left the room and descended the stairs to the kitchen. Hand on the railing, he paused, listening. 

He could hear Skinner on the phone. 

"--agent of mine who's in some trouble. Yes, that's correct. There may be a tie in with one of your cases up there, Detective." 

Doggett swore softly, hating Skinner for checking up on him. He took the stairs, slowly, wincing as each step jarred something, or pulled something... He'd face the music, that was the only thing he could do. 

* * *

Down in the kitchen, the two sat down to tomato soup, French bread with a bit of cheese, and Doggett, sitting at the table across from Skinner, found himself barely able to touch it, though he really couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. 

Skinner was kind enough to keep conversation to a minimum, behaving as if his agent had lunch with him in his kitchen every other day. But, every now and again Doggett would catch Skinner casting that worried gaze upon him, and finally Doggett's nerves snapped. " I suppose you think I'm some kind of deviant." The words were out before he could stop them. 

But Skinner only regarded Doggett over his wirerims, and said as tolerantly as Doggett had ever heard him, " John... I just want to understand what happened. How you got here." His expression was open, non-judgmental. "How did you ever meet this guy, John?" 

Doggett was surprised his reply came so easily. " I met him at the gym. I'd seen him around the Bureau headquarters before, he seemed nice enough. " Doggett said, wondering just when they'd gotten on a first name basis. Hours ago, he realized with a pang. 

He took a deep breath and continued. "Whitechapel was lifting weights--and he asked me to spot'im." 

"I did, " Doggett said, " and it turned into a regular thing. And one day, afterwards... we.. ended up at his place, all full of Piss and Vinegar and full of Southern Comfort and I...I just needed somebody. Any. Body. God help me, I deserve what I got." 

He stopped to take a drink of the milk Skinner had poured for him, but his hands were shaking so badly, he feared he'd drop the glass and make a mess of Skinner's kitchen. He stared at the table. At his hands. Anywhere but at Skinner's face. He felt himself slouching, waiting for the Assistant Director's condemnation. 

"So what happened?" Skinner asked, simply. 

Doggett looked up, and Skinner had the most peculiar look on his face... if he hadn't known better, that expression could have been described as...sympathetic? Nah. Maybe. 

Doggett swallowed hard, and continued." I... got what I needed from him... someone to pretend he loved me, and having him... helped me forget some of my own pain. But what he started giving me was the pain he needed me to feel... with his belt, an extension cord, his.." Doggett's breath caught in his throat, but he choked the words out, " ..his fist. And I actually thought I could love him anyway. Hell, I don't know... it's like I couldn't say no to him, even when I wanted him to stop. I just... let him do whatever he wanted to me." 

"But you managed to break it off with him," Skinner interjected, a little sharply. 

Doggett looked up again at that, looked into Skinner's eyes and realized that Skinner was actually pulling for him. It helped. He found his voice again. "Yeah. When Edward started talkin' `bout having me be with ...other... men so he could watch, I couldn't take it any more. It's like I woke up, or somethin'. And he lost it, went crazy scary, and he tried to beat me again. This time I fought back." He took another deep breath. " This time, I won." 

Doggett wished he could have found any shred of self worth, of pride in himself at being able to utter that last sentence. But he couldn't. He was too tired, too exhausted... and he was broken and he knew it. He had remembered what Whitechapel and his hired goons had done to him... in his own house, where he would never feel safe again. And he knew how pathetic that sounded , even to him, and it just didn't seem to matter. He stared again at the table, doing his best to avoid Skinner's eyes. 

Suddenly he felt a warm, calloused hand enclose his own with gentle strength. He looked up at Skinner, surprised. 

"You fought him, John." Skinner murmured. " You fought him and took back your life; you _did_ win." Skinner squeezed Doggett's hand, not gently. But it was comforting, nevertheless. 

Doggett dragged in a ragged breath, but managed a slight, teary grin. He squeezed Skinner's hand back, but did not withdraw it. A long moment passed. 

"Assistant Director?" Scully's voice rang out. The sound of the front door closing jolted Skinner and Doggett back into mundanity; they parted, Doggett giving a self-deprecating chuckle, Skinner's face sliding back into bland professionalism. 

* * *

Scully entered the kitchen, tastefully attired as usual, shades of taupe and pale green silk. " I took the liberty of using my key, " she said, then shot Doggett a dagger-glance. " Agent Doggett, whatever are you doing out of bed?" 

"Having brunch. I'm fine, Agent Scully." Doggett drawled, knowing that answer would stave her off for approximately the next three fucking seconds. 

Sure enough, a moment later Scully's hand was clamped to his forehead. " You look a little flushed, " she said, clinically. 

"I'm, ah.. blushing." 

"Sorry." Scully frowned. She dropped her hand and moved away, settling delicately upon another chair, closer to Skinner. She fixed that razor-gaze on Doggett again. " We're just concerned for you, John." 

Doggett felt his shoulders knotting up. Now she's doing it too. All of sudden everybody's using my first name, just because ... for God's sake, Scully, I'm not a child. His jaw clenched with the effort it took to keep from snapping at her. 

But Skinner saw his discomfort, and with a smoothness Doggett wouldn't have believed, drew Scully aside and said very quietly, " He's doing better, Agent Scully. I've been keeping an eye on him." And he just as smoothly changed the subject. " So did you found out anything?" 

Scully glanced rather worriedly at Doggett. Skinner stood, shoulders back, face impassive as ever. 

Doggett tried to make his own expression just as bland as Skinner's. It wasn't working. He could feel his eyebrows knotting up and a deep scowl forming, it was dragging his upper lip into a grimace. He was going to look like a psychotic Shar-pei. He quashed the notion of doing Skinner-face and slid into his own habitual mask of irritated forbearance. 

It didn't help that he knew he was blushing. 

Again. 

Crap. 

He's lost the thread of the conversation. It came rushing into his awareness in a wave that nearly knocked him off his feet when he heard Scully say, "Okay. So we know that Whitechapel's a textbook psychopath; a true predator. How did this guy get into the FBI?" She paused a moment looking thoughtful. "Also, consider the name," Scully continued. " Whitechapel. Whitechapel was one of the districts in the East End of London, where the killings attributed to Jack the Ripper occurred. He was sometimes called the `Whitechapel Murderer' And Edward may be alluding to Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward, the Duke of Clarence, was who as also known as Eddy. He was once thought to have been the Ripper, though that notion was proven to have no basis in fact." 

However, the legend persists." 

Skinner snorted. " Don't tell me. He's a reincarnate of Jack the Ripper? Like as in Star Trek, or something? " He put his hands on his hips and gave a small, wry grin. It was not a smile that indicated that he was amused, however. 

"You watched Star Trek?" Doggett asked, weakly. 

Skinner scowled at him. 

Scully shook her head at Skinner, saying, " No, that was an immortal spirit that kept invading other people's bodies. More likely he's a copycat. " She looked amused. " You watched Star Trek?" 

"What the hell!" Doggett said acidly, " You two think I was having a relationship with freaking Jack the Ripper? A Ghost?" 

"Whitechapel, Agent Scully, " Skinner prodded; ignoring Doggett. 

"I've been able to trace him through several different names through his assets and through a few dozen unsolved murder cases." Scully reported. " From what I can tell, they started out as basic murder mutilations, no rape. All women. Then the murders stopped. Then more murders, this time young boys , add to that the new addition of rape.. Then young men. Then older men. Groups of five to seven for each set. After each set of murders was completed, there would be a span of twenty years or so, before the killings would begin again. Each time the killings seem to get more violent, more sadistic." 

"Same M.O., but progressive, then? " Skinner asked. " Same profile is consistent?" 

"Yes, " Scully answered. " But it seems that there's a convoluted history with this man that seems to jump back and forth in a timeline that spans at least a hundred and fifteen years. Which is impossible. Which means this is an X-File, if I ever saw one." 

* * *

Edward Whitechapel reclined in his leather chair and smiled to himself as he looked at the picture of John, taken so very recently. It was amazing how delectable the man looked in restraints, ah... and very nicely marked. He picked up a snifter of brandy from the mahogany end table next to him, and raised it to his lips. He sipped it precisely, enjoying the mellow burn. 

The trappings of this rather small room were ornate, almost overdone-- a collection of Victorian rugs and paintings, Tudor furniture juxtaposed unabashedly with modern amenities. Not bad for a cellar hidden deep beneath a warehouse. A bit over-furnished, and a little crowded, but it would do. He had John to thank for his present situation. John, and ... perhaps his own misjudgment of John's resilience. 

He'd sent a few prints of this particular batch of photographs to John's Director at the FBI, hoping to put a scare into his ungrateful lover. Maybe he'd see sense after losing his job. Then he'd be dependent on Edward.. who would take care of him, after a few choice punishments. 

He looked at the photo again, frowning a little. His plan should have worked. It had worked before.. with the others... 

Edward remembered the night he'd taken this particular picture. Very nice, very hot. 

That look of fear and pain on John's face... one tear shining in the corner of his eye.. mouth open and wet with his silent sobs... Whitechapel shivered a little as the sheer memory of that night's pleasure sent a pang of pleasure throughout his body. 

But he'd lost John, despite all his careful training, despite all his love. John had, during one of his training sessions, reverted back to the behavior of a novice--, become entirely disobedient.. and actually had dared to raise a hand to his Master. Had struck him! Edward had forgotten just how strong the ex-Marine was, and the resulting bruises he'd gotten from Doggett, though lovely and colorful, were entirely inappropriate. 

He'd punished John... and it had been... very enjoyable. 

Watching the four men he'd picked out especially for their cruelty have their way with his lover had been an electrifying experience. He'd drugged John to make sure he would not fight, but would be fully aware of what was happening to him. Yes. That was important. He's taken picture after picture, barely able to contain his own desire. 

But John had reacted very badly. Very badly, indeed. 

He'd been loathe to leave him there, alone as he did, but there really had been no alternative. But he shouldn't have. 

Edward was worried that he might have broken John Doggett. And he loved the bright spirit of the man, that fire. Had he dimmed it's light, forever? 

And now, John was gone... vanished. No sign of him at home, and not at the FBI headquarters. Had he pushed the man too hard? Maybe the pictures weren't such a good idea, after all. Well, Edward would simply have to get him back. And very carefully, for it seemed that Doggett's friends had found out about Edward Whitechapel--and were making inquiries into his life and whereabouts. His present sanctuary should serve for now, but he would eventually have to retrieve his lover and then disappear. 

Either that , or John Doggett would have to die. 

Like all the others. 

* * *

Part 3 

FBI Headquarters, 3:35 PM.  
X-Files Office 

Agent Monica Reyes sat at her desk, frowning intently as she dialed the number Skinner had given her. 

"Special Victim's Unit, Stabler." 

"Hello, Detective Stabler? I'm Special Agent Reyes with the FBI. Our Assistant Director said that you might have some information for us related to a case we're working on." 

"Uh, yeah, the Whitechapel case?" 

"Yes, that's right. " 

"Let's see, his name's not Whitechapel... but you knew that, right?" 

"We had an idea that might be the case." 

We've been running up against some strange inconsistencies in the records--we know he's got a helluva record and did time up here at Rikers, also at Oswald Correctional down in Baltimore, but Oz itself has no record. The only records we have of where he was sent were the hard copy files here at the House. Nothing on the computer. But they're really _old_ files. We think he escaped and they covered their asses. But there are other things wrong with this picture. Really wrong. " 

"Oh, really?" Reyes asked as a subtle chill settled into her bones. 

Detective Stabler sounded vaguely uneasy. " Yah. It's a little clearer with visual aids. Got a fax number?" 

* * *

The afternoon light filtered through the Venetian blinds of A.D. Skinner's living room, making the dust motes shimmer and sparkle. Doggett was half sprawled on the plush leather couch, lazily, almost drowsing after the brunch in Skinner's kitchen. 

He would have slept, if he could have just stopped thinking. 

He should have been worried about Whitechapel. About the damage the man he'd once thought of as a lover had done to him, to his career. 

He still couldn't get his brain to accept any notion of a tie with Jack the Ripper. Didn't want to. It was just too much. He consciously "not-worried" about the little things. 

He should have been worried that he was ensconced within his Assistant Director's living room, propped up with a pillow, with of all things, a cotton throw Skinner said he'd gotten from his mother. 

All he seemed able to do at the moment was think of Skinner. His ability to be tender, yet strong. How gentle the man could be, for all his apparent gruffness in the office, in the trenches. 

In the trenches... 

Doggett remembered how very carefully, how gently Skinner had treated him after his brush with death. Or rather, after his resurrection brought about by a monstrous creature that Doggett wouldn't have believed existed if he hadn't been ...eaten by it, himself. And then regurgitated back to life, bewildered, lost, dazed, a newborn in a sense. Weak as a kitten, after the initial rush. But Skinner had been there, and had held him all that night in the motel while Doggett had clutched the pristine white rim of the hotel toilet and heaved for an hour. And then, Skinner had held him as he wept; and again as he shivered uncontrollably ; and afterwards taken him to bed that night and held him the night through, warming him, keeping him safe from the monsters who heal through consuming the sick. Or the dead. 

That was when Skinner first began calling him by his first name. 

But the next day, Skinner had given him his space, and had afforded him the luxury of hiding behind his status as an Agent. Back to business as usual. And it had helped. Until one night, he'd awakened drenched in sweat, swearing that he could hear his own screams reverberating off the walls of his own bedroom. He'd called Skinner, and then lamely apologized for the hour, hung up. And then Skinner had shown up at his house in Falls Church, two o'clock in the A.M. and there's Skinner outside his door, wantin' to know if he wants to talk. If he's alright. 

And they talked till dawn. 

This time , Skinner took the couch. Never quite got around to first name basis, either. But the warmth was there. It never left. 

The ringing of the phone made Doggett jump. 

"What?" Doggett could hear Skinner's voice from the foyer. He sounded .. perturbed. 

"Alright, Agent Scully, keep me posted." Doggett heard Skinner moving around, and then he appeared in the entrance to the living room. 

"Agent Doggett." Skinner's expression was blasted, tired. 

Back to first name basis. " Sir?" Doggett sat up straight. This was a bad sign. 

"They've found a body. And more pictures. Like yours. Male. Your height, your build and age group. Blue eyes. Butchered, while in restraints." 

"God...dammit." Doggett softly murmured to himself. 

* * *

Part 4 

Doggett found himself up and off the couch, before he'd even registered that he's moved. He was shaking again, but controlled it with an iron will. 

Skinner seemed genuinely dismayed at what he was going to say next. He cleared his throat. "Agent Doggett, there's something else you should know." 

How bad could this get? Doggett wondered, with a growing sense of trepidation, and then the irony of that thought caught him, and he had to stifle a giggle. Great. I'm going to get hysterical now? Put a clamp on it, Agent. He swallowed. It was hard. He had no spit. 

"The man they found... he was.. " Skinner said, almost gruffly, "... disemboweled." The big man removed his glasses, swiped a big hand over his eyes, and put his glasses back on, stalling for time. Another deep breath. Finally he said it, almost matter-of-factly. " Scully says that by the condition of the body and the extent of the man's injuries, it was obvious that he'd been tortured for days. And then just strung up like a piece of meat-- " 

Doggett doubled over, clutching his belly, feeling as if he were at lost at sea in a fragile boat being buffeted by the worst Nor'easter this side of the Atlantic. He staggered drunkenly toward the bathroom, mortified that he wouldn't make it in time. 

Suddenly Skinner was supporting him, guiding him with a strong arm and a gentle voice, though Doggett couldn't figure out what the hell the man was saying... and then the lights came on, and the seat was up, and then Doggett was on his knees heaving so hard he thought he'd pass out from it. 

But Skinner was there, holding him all the while. 

Again.   
  

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